April 30th arrives
with teeth made of twilight.
Not sharp,
not cruel,
just precise,
the kind of bite
that ends a month
without drawing blood.
It is the moment
when April leans in,
slowly,
deliberately,
and takes its last bite
out of everything
you thought this month was.
A bite of memory,
a bite of longing,
a bite of all the strange days
that crawled,
burned,
whispered,
and trembled their way
toward this final dusk.
But the bite is not hunger.
It is love,
love in the way endings love beginnings,
love in the way a closing door
still carries the warmth
of the room behind it.
April 30th is the soft devouring
of what remains:
the leftover light,
the unspoken words,
the dust of the days
that didn’t quite know
how to be days.
It is the kiss‑that‑is‑not‑a‑kiss,
the farewell‑that‑is‑also‑a‑promise,
the last bite
that tastes like
the first breath
of something new.
April ends
not with silence,
not with noise,
but with a gentle pressure,
a closing of the month’s mouth
around the final moment,
a quiet declaration:
Love survives
even at the last bite.
April, The Skin That Still Breathes
Look
there’s still a skin
in that corner of the room,
a thin, pale remnant
curled like a forgotten question.
It should be dead.
It should be dust.
It should be nothing
but a shed memory
left behind by the month
as it slipped out of itself.
And yet,
it breathes.
Slowly.
Softly.
As if April left
one last lung behind,
one last whisper,
one last foolish heartbeat
refusing to stop.
This is the celebration of the fools,
the final ritual
of a month built on
missteps,
misunderstandings,
misfires,
and miraculous accidents.
April has always belonged
to the fools,
the ones who leap
before looking,
the ones who trust
before doubting,
the ones who believe
in impossible insects,
in zombie neighbors,
in salt‑wind poems,
in stars that sneeze
the world apart.
The fools are the saints
of this month.
The skin in the corner
is their relic.
It breathes
because April refuses
to fully die.
It breathes
because foolishness
is a form of survival.
It breathes
because endings
always leave something behind,
a trace,
a shell,
a skin,
a breath.
And so the month closes
with this quiet, uncanny reminder:
Even when April is over,
its foolish heart
keeps breathing
in the corners
you forget to look at.
